et grass and carving wood, not crudely, but with unusual taste, boxes
and chalets, napkin rings and figures of animals. Where he had learned
these arts his daughter never knew, but she imagined from an old Indian
who had lived in the little cabin in the early days and had died when
Phoebe was still quite small. As far as a man may be sane whose memory
extends back only some eighteen years and who has only one illusion,
Phoebe's father was sane. The baskets and woodcarving he and his
daughter peddled through the country with success, because they were
exceedingly well done, and the money earned was sufficient for their
small needs.

Too excited from the unusual events of the night to sleep, Phoebe lay on
the divan in the living room and reviewed the mysteries that filled her
life. She had a strange smattering of knowledge for a girl of eighteen.
It would seem that she had been gifted with a memory for two since her
father had none, and whatever she learned from the row of books on the
shelves she remembered. That is, whatever interested her.

She knew the constellations and the planets, and on summer nights had
located them in the heavens by means of the book chart. She would point
them out to her father, who glanced at them vaguely, smiled and went on
playing the zither, his consolation in idle moments.

She had read and re-read the history of England so many times that some
of the chapters she could repeat word for word. She understood little of
the poetry, but the rhythm of the lines sang in her head, and without
knowing the meaning she could repeat in a sing-song voice long poems and
sonnets. "Pilgrim's Progress" and the "Iliad" and the New Testament with
the Psalms were her solace on the long winter evenings. One after the
other she read them with unending pleasure. She would read slowly so as
not to finish too soon, as a child nibbles at her sweet cake to make it
last the longer, and having finished one volume she would take up
another with all the eagerness of one about to plunge into a new book.
Just how much she had gained from the teachings of Christ was hidden
deep in her own soul, but we will find later that Phoebe had learned a
secret which those who have had the advantage of broad education have
often passed by.

When at last the first pipings of the birds came to herald the dawn, she
rose and went out to the gallery. The last star was fading into the
grayness of the sky and already morning was at hand.